A bird without wings
by deadly sorrow
Summary: "They came to take his body away and Robert held me. I screamed and I battled, but he held me. That little bundle. They took him away and I never saw him again." AU, loosely follows show/book canon
1. Chapter 1

Winterfell is grey and dull and nothing like the Capitol. _All the better,_ she thinks as Ser Corwen helps her slide from her mare. The entire yard kneels to the King and he lumbers off his warhorse to Lord Stark, bidding him to rise. They embrace as old friends and her father kisses Lady Stark like he would a sister. The children are lined up beside their parents, all pretty Tully dolls with blue eyes and fire-kissed hair. _All but one_. The little Stark girl hisses out 'Where's the Imp?', meeting Serah's eye bravely when she casts a gaze to her.

 _A firebrand then,_ Serah hides a smirk as her mother approaches. _We'll get along splendidly._ The eldest girl gazes at Joffrey, looking half in love with him already. _She'll do well for him. No doubt she'll let him play the dashing prince and fawn over him as he likes._ She holds back a shiver. _Gods help her when he tires of the game and wants to throw away his broken doll._

Her mother greets the Starks with icy courtesy and frowns when Robert calls for Lord Stark to take him to the crypts. "We've been riding for a month my love," Cersei tries tiredly. "Surely the dead can wait."

"Ned!"

With a last look to the stone-faced Queen, Lord Stark departs the yard after his King. Lady Stark greets them to fill the awkward silence, though the Queen is all cold smiles and icy stares as she patiently allows Lady Stark to introduce her children. The Lady of Winterfell eyes Serah with clear blue eyes and does not move her gaze even as her mother names her younger siblings.

It is no secret that the King wants to bind his House with the Starks, through marriage and blood, and she may be the key to that. _He would leave me here in this frozen wasteland if it made him true brothers with Ned Stark._ Serah seethes in her thoughts, not wanting to set her mother off. The Queen has already raged and shouted herself hoarse once she realized her husband's plot.

Lady Stark conducts them to their rooms herself, ever the attentive hostess. Her mother's face seems like to crack from the strain of her smile as her eyes glitter like cold emeralds.

Left to her own devices in her room, Serah desires nothing more than to fall onto the fur covered bed and sleep for days. Her thighs ache from their month in the saddle and she knows the feast tonight will only exacerbate it.

Duty, however, takes precedence over her own desires. She and her handmaid, a young woman from the Stormlands named Caire, quickly rifle through the contents of her chests, a trousseau fit for a Queen. A gown of deep purple silk, slashed with black and Myrish lace catches her eye, and she plucks it from the confines _._ _Mother will be cross,_ her lips tilt wryly as she brushes as hand along the black detail.

Cersei prefers her children to dress in Lannister colours, as she herself is wont to do. All three of her siblings are, more often than not, swathed in crimson and gold, while she dresses like a Baratheon Stag. _She has her three little lions_ , _yet cannot allow father to have his one Baratheon Stag._ Though her Septa would call her wicked, Serah has always delighted in the way her parents fight for her attention.

Serah places her palm along the wall of the room and closes her eyes as the heat warms her chilled skin. _At least I shan't freeze if I'm doomed to be left here._ A bath is called, and as Caire lays the dress over the bed, Serah scrubs away the dirt and sweat and dust, with little time for anything else.

She is in her shift by the fire drying her dark curls when her mother, along with an army of maids, flounces in. Dressed in Lannister crimson and gold with shoulders bared, and her hair braided and twisted upon her head in a manner Serah has likened to a bird's nest, crowned with twining antlers and emeralds.

She approaches the fire, waves Caire away, and runs a brush through her daughter's damp curls. "Your father is set on leaving you here to freeze in the North," she mutters. "I should wish for nothing more than for you to come home with us."

Despite herself, Serah feels her heart warm at her mother's words. "I shall pray that it is so, mother." Her mother smiles approvingly at her piety.

With her hair dry, Caire and one of her mother's maids dress her in the gown. Cersei's lips twitch at the sight of it, though she says nothing. As they begin to braid Serah's hair in her own personal style, the Queen holds up a hand. Another of her handmaids produces a silken bundle from the folds of her skirts and places it on Cersei's upturned palm.

"A gift, little doe," she whispers and approaches her daughter. "From your grandfather. To make up for missing your nameday," she unwraps the silk and delights in the awe that spreads over Serah's face.

The crown that sits in her mother's grasp is nearly identical to her own, save for the metal and jewel, a glittering amethyst set amongst silver, twining antlers. For the first time since her flowering, Serah's hair is braided and stacked upon her head, the crown nestled within the braided curls. Cersei brushes one braid over her daughter's shoulder as they look into the polished silver looking glass.

"Such a beauty," Serah smiles at her mother's praise and grips her mother's hand tightly. Cersei draws back to the bed and settles on it as Serah's handmaid finishes preparing her for the night.

Her pretty little stag. Despite Serah's unfortunate parentage, Cersei feels love swell within her as she watches her daughter gaze into the looking glass. While she loves her eldest, she cannot allow Robert to send her away, the only protection she has if the truth of her three youngest children ever came out.

 _Robert shall not take her from me._ She smiles indulgently as Serah twirls with girlish vanity. _I'll burn him in his bed before I let that happen._

* * *

Her father bellows for the entire hall to hear of how beautiful his eldest is. He twirls her, eyes warm beneath his brow, and when he presents her to Robb Stark, the twinkle in his eyes makes her stomach plummet through the floor.

 _He still plans to to leave me here in the frozen wastes of the North._ Her mother's lips tighten until they are almost invisible, though she says nothing and allows Ned Stark to take her arm.

When Serah meets Robb Stark's eyes, her resolve to be an absolute terror to him weakens. So earnest and polite, he treats her as he would a doll made of the finest porcelain. Despite herself, she is unable to treat him coldly as he acts like no other man she has ever met. The few lords her father let near her never lasted longer than a few days at the most as they all treat her as an ornament for their arm.

So, she charms and laughs and delights in Robb Stark's company, along with the Kraken in Wolf's clothing, Theon Greyjoy. He is the most delicious rogue and she easily counters his many attempts to flirt. Robb scarcely tries to use her given name and she tires of her title within minutes before ordering him to call her 'Serah'.

When the music begins to play, she dances and spins among the Northmen, easily keeping pace with the fast, wild dances of the North. As she leaves Robb's grip to go to her uncle's, he picks her up and spins her round and round until the world is a blur around them.

"You seem in much better spirits than when I last saw you," Jaime Lannister comments dryly. His niece's blue-green eyes flash at him demurely and he laughs loudly. "You, my little duck, will be the death of Robb Stark if this betrothal goes through."

She flashes him a cheeky smile before she catches her mother's eye across the room. The Queen's cold emerald gaze softens ever so slightly at the sight of her daughter and brother dancing together. For the briefest of moments, she can almost see blonde curls in place of black, though it vanishes the moment she hears Robert's laugh. His hand is down a serving wench's bodice, cheeks flushed with wine beneath his beard, and she feels her stomach turn with rage.

A look to her brother, and her daughter is escorted to the high table. Jaime bows to them before he flits off to bother Ned Stark. "My lady mother," Serah curtsies, every inch the proper princess. "Lady Stark."

Lady Catelyn treats her with polite, if not cold, courtesies, and attempts to draw her mother into conversation as the King laughs lustily over the din. Her mother soon tires of Lady Catelyn, calls little Sansa over, who is all smiles and polished courtesies until the Queen asks the one damning question.

"And, have you bled yet?"

Serah winces for the girl, who suddenly eyes own mother with panic in her lovely blue gaze. Queen Cersei easily makes the girl smile again, it is all the princess can do to not scream at the top of her lungs. Serah is a maid, flowered and true, and knows that if Lady Sansa does not become a woman soon, it will be _her_ marriage they announce by the end of their stay.

 _Would be that I could marry Willas,_ she remains with her mother, and they glare mutinously at the King as he fondles the wench on his thighs. _I could live at Highgarden and be with Margaery and Loras and Garlen._ The current Lord of Highgarden is an oaf to be sure, but he is a goodhearted bumbling fool. And she adores his mother, the Lady Olenna Tyrell. _I shan't mind being around the Queen of Thorns, I should think._ The matriarch of the Tyrells easily took the young princess under her wing the first time she traveled to Highgarden with Renly and Loras.

The night ends for her when she glimpses Tommen rubbing his eyes with pudgy fists. A kiss to her mother, a bow to both her and Lady Catelyn, and she sweeps from the hall, the little cub on her hip, his nursemaid trailing behind her. They meet another lion in the halls and she laughs in delight when mismatched eyes flash towards her.

"Uncle Tyrion!"

Her little uncle smiles at her, wine on his breath when she kneels to receive his greeting. His kiss touches her forehead, then her cheeks before he leans back and grasps her slender fingers.

"More beautiful every day!" He cheers, eyes twinkling.

"You saw me this morning," she points out. _Before you went to whore on both wine and flesh._ She says nothing of what is on her mind though, and hugs him tightly. Tommen stirs against her shoulder and sleepily greets Tyrion, who keeps his greetings short when Tommen yawns wider than the last.

Serah has half a mind to keep Tommen with her, it wouldn't be the first time he has crawled into her bed in the dead of night, though refrains from doing so. _Mother would be furious - she'd claim people would whisper that she'd given birth to a mewling kitten, not a Lion of the Rock._ The though makes her scowl, though she smooths her brow when Tommen's emerald eyes flutter shut. _Even though Tommen is a stag._

Ser Corwen melts from the shadows when she leaves Tommen's quarters, tall and proud.

"Did you not enjoy the feast, Ser?" She waltzes to him and takes his arm in her own. Ser Corwen has no stomach for feasts, she knows, yet she cannot resist needling him. Her sworn shield is grim and determined, though has a dry humor that makes her laugh.

"I did not enjoy much, for sure." His slate-grey eyes twinkle in the torchlight. "Your lord father seems to have enjoyed himself into a stupor." His tone is cautious, guarded, as everyone knows the walls have ears... even here. "In any case, the King craves your attention in the Great Hall."

Serah frowns in response, but merely nods and allows Ser Corwen to return her to the hall. Her father awaits her and she catches sight of Sansa to his left, a harp clutched in her slender fingers. _She looks as though she will burst from happiness._ Serah smiles and curtsies to her father, who bellows for her to sing them a song.

"I am much obliged, my lord father," she draws close to Lady Sansa, face as red as her hair, and whispers the name of the song in her ear. The girl nods and listens raptly to her instructions, eyes dream-like and smile vapid. _She believes life a song - that she is a maid in one of them._ The urge to refuse, to insult lady Sansa is almost overwhelming, but Serah merely leads the girl to the center of the hall, where a spot has been cleared, a stool placed.

She waits for Lady Sansa to seat herself as the hall begins to quiet. One by one, all fall silent til the room seems as quiet as the crypts beneath the keep, all to hear their princess sing a song. At a nod from Serah, Sansa begins to strum, the notes light and haunting in the still air.

 _"I'll tell you a tale of the bottomless blue, and it's hey to the starboard, heave-ho."_ Soft and mysterious, her voice fills the hall as she sings. The song, a tone-downed sea shanty from the Stormlands, is cool and soothing compared to the wild tunes of the North. " _Brave sailor beware, for a big one's a'brewin', in mysterious fathoms below."_

The King watches, burly chest thrust out with pride, as his eldest daughter and one true stag serenades them. " _I'll sing you a song of the king of the sea, a_ _nd it's hey to the starboard, heave-ho_." Emboldened, she begins to weave between the enthralled men, eyes the color of the turbulent sea during a storm. " _The ruler of all of the ocean is he, in mysterious fathoms below."_

Cersei stares at Robb Stark, who watches her daughter, his eyes wide with a new interest. Lips pursed, she forces her glare away from the boy to burn holes into her husband, keeping an eye on her daughter.

 _"I'll tell you a tale of the bottomless blue, and it's hey to the starboard, heave-ho."_ Serah does a final spin and returns to Lady Sansa, who is smiling so wide her face is like to split in half. " _Look out, lad, a mermaid be waiting for you, in mysterious fathoms below. Mysterious fathoms below."_

The princess lowers her black head, crown glints in the torchlight in a graceful curtsy, as applause erupts from the men, shattering the sudden stillness. Serah hides her scowl as men clamour for another song from her. She nearly runs from the center of the hall, catching herself enough to curtsy to the clapping throngs, and all but runs to her mother's side.

She spends the rest of the night in her Uncle Jaime's arms, dancing her slippers to shreds as he spins and dips her, keeping her to himself under her mother's watchful gaze.

* * *

The next morn, she breaks her fast in Lady Stark's solar. Sansa and Arya are in attendance, and Serah yawns politely behind her hand when the eldest of the girls peppers her with questions of King's Landing.

"Is it true the feast last for days?" Little Sansa simpers, starred eyes and dreamy smiles. _She is a child. A simpering, spoiled child who needs a good dose of reality._ For a mad moment, Serah itches to smack the expression from her pretty, doll-like face.

"Mayhaps you will see, little dove," Serah sips her sweetmilk and easily draws Arya into conversation. They speak of horses and archery - and the unfairness of their sex that prohibits them from learning how to fight as a boy might.

When she has had her fun scandalising both Lady Sansa and Lady Catelyn, she begs leave. The Lady of Winterfell is too gracious a host to refuse a princess, and easily grants the request. Ser Corwen awaits her in the hall and hands her the winter cloak when she reaches. The weight is both a comfort, and a prison in one.

"The Seven help my father if he leaves me here," she grumbles, making the seven-pointed star with her hands as an afterthought. Ser Corwen snorts at her sudden fit of piety, though says nothing on the subject.

The yard is bustling when she enters it, weak sunlight escaping from the heavy blanket of grey clouds that seems never ending. She strides over the cold dirt, Corwen a shadow behind her, and barely reacts when men, common and noble alike, stop and bow to her. She hears the mutters, of the cold Southron Princess not fit for their little lordling, and it makes her want to laugh.

 _If only their King could hear them._ Robert would bellow for his warhammer if he though even one person was claiming his eldest, his jewel, was not perfect for young Robb Stark. _A pity their comments would only spur his mad desire to see me wedded and bedded to the Stark boy._

She has no illusions; her father sees her as Lyanna, with Robb starring as himself. _Or the other way around,_ she thinks peevishly. _No matter which way, he sees Lyanna and himself where I and Robb Stark stand._

The King walks with Lord Stark, in deep conversation that she is loathe to interrupt. Her father looks happier, more like the man he once was, than the miserable old man he's become. He brightens even more when he sees her stride to them and gladly accepts her kiss on his ruddy cheek.

"Father," she drops a curtsy to both him and Lord Stark, who smiles faintly at her. "I wish you both the best of luck on your hunt. If only I could accompany you."

Robert howls with laughter while Ned smiles patiently. She inwardly rolls her eyes, though says nothing. She has never been on a hunt with her father, though has gone with Renly and Loras and a host of Tyrells many a time. She hands her father his gloves when he mounts his warhorse, wishes him luck once more, and sees him off. Ser Corwen waits, still as a shadow, as they watch the men ride out of the gates towards the Wolfswood.

"So," Corwen breaks the silence suddenly. "What shall we do while the men hunt boars?" He slants a smirk her way. "Shall we join your sister and the Stark girls in their knitting?"

The innocently delivered query earns him a whack on the shoulder by his irate princess.

Later, she is in her mother's solar, reading from a book as Caire strums the harp quietly, when a sound shatters the calm. A wolf's howl, chilling and mournful, fills the air and she shares a frightened look with Caire. They race to the window and throw back the shutters to see the yard in chaos.

She flies to the yard, the hem of her dress drips with mud by the time she reaches the crowd by the abandoned tower. When she breaks through the throng of people, a startled gasp escapes her lips at the sight of little Brandon Stark, legs twisted underneath him and pale as death, on the cold ground. Caire tugs the sleeve of her gown, to draw her away from the sight, but she ignores the pleas.

The boy's wolf pup is beside him, howling at the top of its lungs, and she falls to kneel beside the boy in a rustle of silk and furs. Her fingers tremble as she reaches for him, only for a strong, calloused hand to snatch her back.

"Shh, little duck," Jaime cradles her to his chest before he hands her off to her shield and takes the broken boy in his arms himself. He feels no guilt when he glances down at the boy, clearly at death's door.

Serah watches, numb to Ser Corwen and Caire's worry, the howls of the Stark's wolf pups echoing in her ears.

* * *

They stay for a month, the only concession the King will allow for his grieving old friend. Brandon Stark has yet to awaken, broken and all but dead to the world.

Dawn finds Serah on her knees, kneeling before the carved figure of the Mother. The small sept, built for Lady Catelyn by her husband, as a sign of the great love he bore his Southron wife, is empty but for her own whispered pleas. She knows the little of the Stark boy - Bran - but that he is an avid climber, one who has never taken a tumble in his young life.

Robb Stark is somber, moreso than usual, and he has taken to the Godswood while she lends her prayers to the sept. She is not optimistic of their marriage, if it indeed comes to pass. Myrcella and Tommen, the little lambs, have already lent their prayers to the Gods, and are tucked safely in bed, ready to leave the North for their home.

Her own trunks are packed, riding habit at the ready, and her horse is surely being groomed in the stables at this very moment. _So I will not be betrothed to the little Stark lordling._

At least for now.

Of his five trueborn children, Lord Stark will bring but two - Arya and Sansa - with him to the South as he takes on the mantle of Hand. She has heard whispers that Brandon was to be the third, though the boy has yet to wake and is not likely to anytime soon.

A rustle of silk and satin catches her ear, and she turns from her prayers to see her mother entering the sept. She makes to rise, to curtsy as she's been taught, but the queen motions for her to stay put. She produces a padded cushion, a beeswax candle thick as her wrist, and kneels beside her daughter before the Mother.

"Have you said your goodbyes?" Cersei questions once her prayers have been said.

Serah nods mutely. Lady Stark has not left her son's side, and the princess was forced to awkwardly express her condolences and her farewells, as the Lady of Winterfell acted a nursemaid. Her own mother had been much too concerned with affairs of state to pander as a nurse to her children. _Except Joff, of course. Mother's golden princeling._

"Good girl," Cersei smooths a hand across her eldest's brow, drinking in the features with relief. Serah is her image, but for her colouring and a tilt to her nose, a Lannister shrouded in Baratheon colours. The Queen impulsively presses a kiss to her daughter's brow, and Serah's eyes flutter shut at the affection. "I pray I will not lose you in the months to come, little doe."

Serah smiles and presses a kiss to her mother's cheek.

"As do I mother. As do I."

* * *

 **A/N: I've always had this weird plot idea of Cersei's first son - the one by Robert - having a twin who was a girl, and the girl survived while her twin did not. Not sure where this is going, but we'll see, though don't expect this to be updated too often.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

The princess rides astride her mare, Ser Corwen at her side, Lord Renly on the other. A host of Baratheon men follows them - it is said that, in her anger, the princess refuses to look at those that wear the colours of her mother's House. Ned's eyes are drawn to the mottled hue of purples and blacks on her high cheekbone, the split in her bottom lip. She wears them as another woman might rouge and carmine. _Products of the Queen's love._

Robert is in a towering rage, and now Ned knows why. The story spreads throughout the camp before midday. The sorry business with the Stark girls, their wolves and the prince, has caused strife within the royal family. The queen's face resembles a mooncake, so thick is the powder she wears. It does little to hide the bruising that mars her beauty.

Serah speaks to no one. _And I am not likely to._ Where he was her companion, Ser Corwen has virtually become her shadow overnight. He glowers at any and all who do so much as look her way. _He is the most protective of men._ Not for the first time, she is grateful for her father's choice. The Queen would have had her surrounded by Lannister redcloaks, distant kinsmen and cousins. _A stag surrounded by lions._

Just as Cersei would have her daughter hide her shame in the confines of the wheelhouse. But just as she ignores the shattered remains of the powder pot sent by her mother, she ignores the summons to join the queen and her children. She sits in the saddle, back so straight that any septa would be proud.

Renly tries to cheer her with japes and salacious gossip fresh from King's Landing. It is only when he speaks of Ser Loras - and the news from Highgarden that Willas is heartbroken by her 'courtship' with his brother - that she cracks a smile. Ser Barristan joins them as the day drags. The princess and her party have ridden ahead, far enough that the royal parents worry.

"It would put her grace's mind at ease, if you would return in sight of the redcloaks, my princess." Serah settles a cool stare on him. He is but an old man, one who knows nothing but his duty. It should not rankle her as much as it does. _Mayhaps he should learn to think for himself for once._ She refuses her mother's carefully worded invitation with the poorest of grace.

Ser Barristan is too honourable to take offense, and he rides off with another bow of his head. Renly raises a brow but says little; they are as close as siblings. He knows better than to take her to task when she is in a mood. They ride ahead so far that she cannot see the column that rides behind her father. She has not spoken to him, or her mother, or Joff, since that night.

She has no desire to. _Father wishes me to make him brothers with Ned Stark, and mother would see the Stark girl a whore before father gets his wish._ Not that the Stark girl helps matters, Serah decides peevishly. She believes life a song, that Joff is Florian to her Jonquill. _The court will eat her up and spit out the pieces._ She takes malicious pleasure from the thought.

For her next attempt, her mother tries a different tactic. Uncle Jaime awaits an audience with her the moment she wakens. She is scarcely laced into her riding habit when he enters the tent. She ignores him and settles at the makeshift vanity, where Caire begins to style her hair.

"Uncle," she greets frostily. When she was a child, little more than a toddler out of nursery smocks, she adored her golden uncle. Now, she can scarce stand the sight of him. She is unkind to him, and spiteful, and does not care. She knows his vows bind him, that he cannot protect her from her mother any more than he can protect his beloved sister from her husband.

He does not help himself to the carafe of wine, or tease and pull her hair, as he is wont to do. He parrots her mother's request and awaits her reply. Serah waits till Caire ties her braided curls off with a satin ribbon before she stands. Jaime's features are unreadable, non of his brash, bold mannerisms in sight. It is almost enough to make her forget her anger.

Almost.

"You may tell my lady mother, that I am disinclined to acquiesce her request." Sweetness drips from her mouth and it turns to venom when he makes no move to leave despite the dismissal in her voice. "You may leave, Ser Jaime."

He leaves with a bow, and she is not bothered for the rest of the day. Renly suddenly remembers gifts and letters -she suspects he does it to cheer her - and she spends the day reading letters from Margaery and Willas and Loras. A bolt of pale green silk shot with gold thread comes from Lady Margaery. The heir to Highgarden has sent her a golden rose brooch, with chips of diamonds along the thorns.

Her father will not settle on the match despite Renly urging, too intent on marrying her to Robb Stark. Little has been said of the possible betrothal, and she doubts the matter will be decided in the coming days. The sorry business with the wolves has soured relations between the Starks and Lannisters, and a betrothal may do more harm than good.

They are days way from the Capital when Lord Stark approaches her. Ser Corwen glowers at the head of House Stark when his grey eyes linger on the faded bruises. She refuses to feel shame, despite what others might say. _It is my mother's shame that she so wishes me to hide, no matter her sweet words._ His long face is set in a frown that only serves to blacken her mood further.

 _He acts as if he's never seen a bruise in his life,_ she thinks spitefully. _As if it is not common practice for a parent to slap a child who displeases them, or a husband to discipline a wife._ But the Northerners are queer, that much she has decided. But, she has been raised to respect her elders, even if she does not always do so, and waits patiently for the Warden of the North to spit out what he has to say. He blusters for a time astride his courser, tripping over his words as a greenboy fresh from the fields might when presented with his first whore. It does little to endear her to him.

"Forgive me, your highness," he begins finally, wholly uncomfortable and unable to take his grey eyes off the bruise. "I simply wished to convey my thanks, for your kind words last night."

She levels a calm stare his way. "I simply wished for justice to be done." _Not that any good came from it_. Both Stark girls lost their wolves, and she earned a slap for her troubles. He must sense her thoughts, for his eyes are once more drawn to the proof of her mother's tender care.

"My Lord," she does not bow her head as she has been taught. She is a princess of the Iron Throne, of Houses Baratheon and Lannister. Lord Stark dips his head, grim-faced and obviously displeased, but unable to gainsay her. She slumps in the saddle as Lord Stark rides to join her father. Ser Corwen awaits her command, his eyes uncharacteristically soft.

"Are you well, my princess?"

She straightens at his words, mindful that eyes are on her at all times, seeking a weakness, a chink her her armour. "I shall be happy when we have arrived home." She offers before she nudges her mare into a canter, a column of Baratheon men handpicked by her uncle stream in line behind her.

* * *

King's Landing has changed little in their time away. She rides into the city at her father's side, unable to sway him from his decision. Joff is cosseted away in the wheelhouse, still steaming over the shame the littlest Stark girl and her wolf have caused him. The smallfolk clamour to see their little princess all grown up, the firstborn of a new dynasty.

They say nothing of the queen or her little cubs.

They reach the Red Keep with little fanfare. Robert comes to her after he climbs down from his warhorse and waves Ser Corwen away. Her father swings her from her mare himself when they arrive in the yard, in higher spirits than she's seen since their arrival in Winterfell. She has not spoken to him, too upset by his decision to allow an innocent wolf be punished for the crimes of another.

"I'm sorry, my girl," he breathes, so soft she strains to hear. Though he does not act it at times, he is all too aware that the walls of the Red Keep have ears. And many are like to chirp into her mother's ear. "We'll sup together tonight, you and I." He promises and she does not have to force a smile. He cups a cheek and presses a kiss to her forehead. She leans into it and grips his wrist. She feels like she did as a small child, in awe of her great bear of a papa.

The wheelhouse rolls into the yard and the moment is broken. Robert leaves her with a fatherly smile before he lumbers off and shouts for his small council. Serah flees the yard before the wheelhouse can come to a stop, walking as fast as propriety allows. Her rooms have been left untouched, though she assumes an army of servants worked to the bone to clear the rooms of the dust and grime of the past three months.

Caire strips her of her riding habit and she dresses in a sleeveless gown of black silk along with a deep purple over robe. Their time in the North makes the Southron heat all the more oppressive. Her trunks are brought up, and as Caire begins to put away her gowns and robes and shoes, Serah settles at her writing desk. She pens replies and 'thank yous' for the gifts the Tyrell children have sent her and returns their love. She is not close to Garlan, as he is more oft at Cider Hall with his little bride, Leonette Fossaway.

The seventh bell finishes just as Ser Barristan arrives to act as escort to the King's chambers. Serah feels a flush of shame at the treatment she dealt the poor Ser on the last legs of their journey. He accepts her apology as they cross the Keep to the King's private dining hall, Ser Corwen their silent shadow.

She awards him with a smile and kiss to his freshly shaved cheek. "You are the most gallant of men, Ser Barristan," she praises. The barest hints of a flush rise in his cheeks. He is handsome, Serah thinks not for the first time, for a man of his years. It is invigorating, Serah decides, that she can make many a man, even Ser Barristan, flustered with a flutter of her eyes and a few kind words from her lips.

The King is in high spirits still - Serah knows that comes from the familiar trappings of his rooms and his favorite whores - and when she broaches the subject of choosing her own ladies, he agrees, deep in his cups. Her mother will be wroth, but Serah does not care. If the decision is left to her mother, Serah's ladies and companions will be filled with Lannister kinswomen, women and girls who will report all activity to the Queen.

Serah shudders at the thought.

For the first time in a moon's turn, the King broaches the subject of the betrothal. He is not as keen, that much is obvious. The business with the Stark girls and their wolves has soured the idea in his mind. _Little Sansa may have to content herself to be daughter of the Hand, instead of a Queen._ Serah does not feign her relief at the knowledge.

Renly lounges in her solar when she returns, a grin on his face and a letter in hand. The seal on the letter is the Tyrell rose. An invitation, from Lady Margaery to the Lord of Storm's End, and the Princess Serah Baratheon, to come to Highgarden for a visit. Though her sore thighs ache at the thought of being in the saddle once more, Serah jumps into her Uncle's arms.

"I thought you might invite dear little Lady Sansa along," Renly's eyes gleam. "Mayhaps the Queen of Thorns might teach her a thing or two about courtly intrigue, eh?" He does not say the true reason, and Serah does not need him to.

She merely rewards him with a sly smile.

* * *

Princess Serah takes Sansa as a companion, along with a host of other noble girls from the Houses Morrigen, Penrose, and Mertyns, all of the Stormlands. Whispers abound that the Queen is incensed by her daughter's passive rebellion. Lord Stark sees little interaction between the princess and her queen, the latter attends court even less than the King himself.

Ned wishes to contest what he considers a dubious honour, but cannot without insulting both his princess and his king. With news from across the Narrow Sea of the last children of Aerys, Robert's mood is foul and black with each passing day. But, despite the rumours that the doe-eyed princess is as cruel as she is beautiful, Sansa is bright-eyed and flushed when she returns to the Tower of the Hand each night.

Princess Serah is rarely within the confines of the Keep, choosing instead to take daily rides with all her ladies. Her closest companion, a girl from House Mertyns and cousin to Ser Corwen, takes special care to help Sansa adjust to the capitol, amidst the glitter and glamour of the royal court. Robert rarely speaks of the subject of the betrothals, and Ned cannot contain his relief.

Then he sees the courtship of the princess and the young Tyrell boy, Ser Loras. He sees the two together quite often, sometimes with Lord Renly in attendance. The Tyrell boy, Ned knows, was fostered at Storm's End, a favoured retreat of the young princess. The Storm Lords love their princess well, Robert is fond of saying.

There is even talk that Lord Renly, who at one and twenty has yet to take a bride or even consider a betrothal, plans to name Princess Serah as his heir. Robert has already thought to declare her the Princess of Storm's End, much to the Queen's rage and Prince Joffrey's shame.

Busy with affairs of state, and there are more than enough, he rarely sees his daughters, and has little time to help them adapt to the strange place they are in.

It is all too easy for Serah to step in, to cultivate the girls' attentions and loyalties.

* * *

They are to leave for Highgarden in less than a fortnight, just after the Hand's tourney. On the first day, the princess dresses in the palest of greens, shot with golden thread, the colours of willow leaves and wheat, with a belt of twined antlers and thorns about her waist. Once more, she has deigned to wear her hair in the heavy braids her mother favours, so that all might see the crown the Lord of the Rock bestowed upon his eldest grandchild.

Struck by a sudden fit of generosity, Serah orders new gowns to be made for each of her companions. In the royal box, there is a crow to her left in silk satin the colour of sapphires, an owl in snowy white velvet to her right. Little Sansa Stark wears Tully blue and red, to match her wide eyes and fire-kissed hair.

Serah yawns politely behind a lacquered, lace fan. The pageantry of the court means less and less as the years pass. And no expense has been spared for the New Hand's tourney. There is little to do as the men parade past, and her ladies gossip and giggle behind circle palmetto fans. She plucks a sugared almond from the plate of sweets when a little hand touches her. Mycella is dressed in soft creams and golds, her dress an exact copy of their mother's, down to the metalwork on the bodice.

She blinks up at Serah, sweet and doe-eyed. "Might I sit with you, sister?" The little cubs asks. She crooks a finger and whispers in Serah's ear, "Joff is in a foul mood today," she does not dare to glance at him and Serah feels a renewed surge of fury. Joff is cruel to all, especially his little siblings, who are too young to verbally spar with him as she does.

Indeed, their brother is red-faced despite the early hour. Perhaps he's yet to find a new moon-eyed doll to replace Lady Sansa yet. By taking Sansa as a companion, Serah has monopolised all the time that the girl once had. Time Joff would only be too happy to fill.

But she allows nothing of her thoughts to show, and gladly allows Myrcella to join her and her ladies; Lady Alys Mertyns gladly absconds her seat for the younger princess. All the ladies coo over the little beauty, much to Myrcella's secret delight. She is gentle and sweet, a clever little scholar, if her Septa is to be believed.

"Pay him no mind, sweetling," Serah sniffs in mock disdain and is rewarded by a beaming smile, "you are a lioness, and all know that one lioness is worth more than a dozen lions."

Her ladies titter, though none are brave enough to openly mock the crown prince. Serah, bored, quizzes her sister and ladies on the sigils and banners, of the men who are to compete in both the jousts and the melee. Lady Sansa, she is bemused to find, easily identifies each sigil when asked. Perhaps she is not a simpering, insipid doll at all. She eyes the little Stark girl, amused now. _Yes, she will do well for Willas, I think_.

Renly never speaks of it, but Serah knows her uncle well enough to understand his machinations. A Southron alliance with the Tyrells will bring the Starks power and allies, something they are in sore need of.

To a skinny cousin, a greenboy really, Lady Alys hands her favour, a white ribbon about his wrist. Lady Sansa hands off a grey ribbon to Jorey Cassel, the captain of the Stark guardsmen. Of the two princesses, the younger offers a golden ribbon to her Kingsguard protector, Ser Arys Oakheart,, resplendent in his white scales and cloak, whilst the oldest, as is her custom, offers her ribbon of black to Ser Loras.

"Wear it close to your heart," Serah bids him, and he bows his head to hide his snickers at her pageantry. It sets tongues wagging, as always, and when she resumes her seat, more than half the court whispers of the 'courtship' between the Princess and Lord Tyrell's youngest boy. A poor match it would be, she thinks with giddy delight, but if they believe he wishes to bed me, they will cease to whisper how he beds my uncle.

Jorey Cassel does well, unseating a member of both House Redwyne and House Frey before, after three tilts, Lothor Brune is proclaimed the winner of the third match. Poor Alys' champion falls to Ser Barristan, though 'tis plain he is less than disappointed to lose to such a famed knight. Jaime does well, though Serah makes a point to remain seated, even as Myrcella leaps from her seat and claps.

The tourney ends in blood and screams when Ser Hugh, a squire in the late Lord Arryn's household, is set against Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain's lance drives straight through the poor boy's throat on the first tilt. Myrcella cries in horror at the sight and clings to Serah, who watches, white-faced and sick as she tries to hide her sister from the bloodshed.

Lady Sansa emits what might be a cry of shock, and Serah reaches to take her hand. "Look away, little dove," she bids the younger girl, who does as she is told. Lady Alys is quite green in the face and clutches hands with Ladies Casia Morrigen and Julia Penrose. They drag the poor boy's body away, a trail forms in his wake, the red-black of thickening blood.

It takes little to console Myrcella, as she is a princess born as Serah is, and even longer to comfort Tommen. The poor little prince is coddled and pampered at his young age, and he has seen little more than the occasional animal corpse when the mood strikes Joff. In the hours before the feast, Serah spends time cosseted in her apartments, her little cubs at her side.

Of her ladies, she only begs that Lady Alys stays, releasing the others to ready themselves for the festivities. The younger woman cheers the little prince, armed with years of comforting her own sibling's. When the sixth bell rings, Serah sends Tommen and Myrcella on their way, and finally allows Caire to prepare both her and Alys for the feast.

She arrives on Loras' arm; Ser Corwen escorts Lady Alys, ever the dutiful cousin. Seated between her courtly love and Lord Renly, she manages to forget the whole sorry business with Ser Hugh. When the dancing begins, Ser Loras all but carries her to the floor, with no intent on allowing her to leave. The calm is shattered when her father bellows, for all to hear, that he will not be ordered about by his queen.

Her mother is pink with shame, her father red with rage and wine beneath his beard. As the King storms from the high table, Serah slips from Ser Loras' hold, only to be snatched up before she can demand of her uncle what has happened. Jaime smiles lazily down at his niece even as she glowers up at him with stormy, blue-green eyes.

"I see you've continued your courtship with the Knight of the Flowers, little duck," her sullen silence is far less effective than she would like, for he continues blithely, "Can we expect our beloved princess to marry a third son, a lowly knight?"

Her teeth clench and grind yet she smiles poisonously. "I do not know what you mean, Ser," she simpers; it is a warning that her uncle does not heed. "For my friendship with Ser Loras is just that. I will marry, as you well know, at my lord father's discretion."

Jaime throws his head back and laughs loudly. Heads turn and whispers hiss as a snake might in her ears. Has the rift within the royal family mended? Has the princess reconciled with her mother and uncle? Serah wants to scowl but has been too well trained in the game to do so.

"I daresay your tongue has only sharpened in our time apart, little duck," his grip tightens when he spins her out, to stop her when she tries to tug away. She does not want to have this conversation here, not now, not with so many curious ears listening. It is the greatest relief when Loras carefully slips between them and snags her for his own, leaving her golden uncle to face her mother's displeasure.

More than once, she wishes her Uncle Tyrion had not left for the Wall; his words and wisdom are a great comfort to her, and she misses him more than ever. This time, Ser Loras keeps a closer eye on her and does not allow any to steal her away, much to his princess' great relief.

By the next morn, her father's temper has cooled, as she wants to laugh when he tells her of the cause of last night's disagreement. While he was a warrior once, one who won a crown and a queen in one fell swoop, he is not that man any longer and Serah is loathe to tell him so. A Lannister cousin - Lancel, she believes - squires for the king, and Serah winces at the abuse heaped upon the poor boy.

Luckily, as she thinks over how to phrase the words without insulting her king and father, Lord Stark does it for her. Once more, his old friend's mere presence is like a balm to her aging and sullen father. _It is not much, but least he is not drunk from sunrise to sunset._ But, she will take even the littlest of changes if it means her father will not leave the throne to Joff for many, many years.

"Best be off, girl," Robert sighs as he relinquishes the idea of performing in the melee. "Your flowered knight is set to win, if the odds are right."

Serah favours him with a wide smile, one that always makes his eyes soften and his lips twitch. With a kiss to his bearded cheek, she sweeps from the tent in a flurry of silvery grey silk. There are twining antlers around the bodice and the sleeves, mere caps of muslin on her shoulders, tipped with diamonds so sharp they would draw blood.

Idly, she wonders how long she will get away with her farce of a courtship with Loras; her mother seems like to marry her off to the next lord that comes to court, if her dark flush at the sight of Loras once more asking her favour is any indication. She watches the tilts and claps when Loras knocks another man into the dirt, and plays the part of the perfect princess.

It is only when the final rounds come that she sits straight in her seat. Beside her, Alys reaches for her hand in a show of support as Loras rides against the Mountain. From the moment it begins, it is plain to Serah that something is wrong; the Mountain's war horse is unsettled and jerky. Only when the tilts commence, does Serah realise what Loras has done. _Loras you bloody fool!_ Lady Alys gives no word of protest, yet Serah is sure her rings have cut into her poor lady's palm.

With his horse in a titter, the Mountain falls to Loras, yet Serah cannot leap to her feet to cheer her champion. Lady Sansa does in her stead, such a wide grin on that pretty, Tully face. Her pleasure fades when Ser Gregor first beheads his own horse, then goes after Loras, and only then does Serah leap to her feet. Ser Corwen is all that keeps her in her box, his sword drawn if, perhaps, the rage of her grandfather's dog falls to others.

Before more blood is shed, Joff's Hound leaps from the prince's side and duels with his brother. Though his elder brother is nearly twice his size, Sandor Clegane is quick, though it is her father's command that brings an end to the fight. The Tourney ends with Loras proclaiming the Hound the winner, and the poor man looks so lost Serah cannot help but crack a smile.

 _Such a brutish, blunt man,_ she thinks as Sandor tosses the crown to Loras, but keeps the winner's purse. _He has never had the love of the people, even though he has been Joff's faithful dog all these years._ Today, the people cheer the scarred man until he slinks away, as if he is truly a dog, to lick his wounds.

Despite his custom, Loras does not crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty. Poor little Sansa flushes so darkly she is almost the colour of her scarlet hair when he places the crown in her lap, his doe-eyes a warm, soft brown. Adopting the disdain of an offended Lady, Serah sniffs out, "Should I be jealous, Ser Loras?" And the expression of sheer horror the lady Sansa wears is too delicious for words.

Serah draws her close and arranges the flowered crown in the girl's auburn tresses herself, as gentle and thoughtful as a lady should be. "Do not fret, little duck," she strokes a painted finger down the girl's too pale cheeks. "Ser Loras is free with his heart, as all young men must be. Just as we women are cursed to bear it, yes?"

As the Stark girl stutters a reply, Serah presses a kiss to her cheek with a wicked smile.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was a struggle - I still don't like how it turned out.  
**


End file.
